Hold My Hand, Stop My Breath, Keep Me Breathing
by imwiththesociopath
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is alone in the world. He's 15. He has to care for his dying mother single-handedly and everyone hates him for it. Will the new boy be the one to lift him out of his desperation?
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock looked coolly at his Science teacher. "That's it. If you disagree with my teaching you can leave, there's no point in you being in this classroom." She pointed towards the door and put the other hand on her hip, glaring at him.

"Gladly. You're right for once," Sherlock replied, shoving his chair out of the way. The class had gone silent. Molly raised her eyebrows and sighed. 'Not again…' she thought as she shifted her gaze to her desk, 'at this rate he'll be expelled.'

Sherlock walked out into the Science corridor, slamming the door behind him. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white and breathed heavily. Angry tears welled up in his eyes. He pressed his head against the wall, screwing his eyes tight shut and squeezed the drops of frustration so they ran out of his eyes and down the wall. He slammed his fist against the peeling paintwork - again and again. He winced as his knuckles drew blood.

Sherlock turned around and slid down the wall, bringing his knees up to his chin and cradling his bleeding fist. They didn't understand - none of them. They didn't understand what it was like at home. The teachers always thought that he was just being defiant when he didn't do his homework. Well, he was, in a way. It was all very trivial and insultingly easy. But it wasn't just that.

He had to look after mother alone - administering her injections, helping her to eat, dress and wash. He barely got a few moments to himself. It was no use trying to get Mycroft to help; as soon as he got home he bundled as much food as he could carry into his arms and went upstairs, locking his bedroom door.

Who knows what Mycroft did up there, but you could always hear Metallica blaring from his speakers. He must've been studying for some of the time though, his grades only got better. He even got special letters from teachers, all of them praising his extraordinary work, insisting that Mycroft was meant for 'great things.'

Sherlock got letters from school too, though they weren't so positive.

"Sherlock is an exceedingly bright student, but is consistently insolent, and lacks concentration and absorption in his given tasks. If he made more of an effort and worked on his attitude, he could easily be at the top of the class. But unless he chooses to do so we will be forced to proceed into higher sanctions. He also does not have an especially good relationship with any of his classmates and cannot co-operate with them…"

They all said the same sort of thing. Thankfully, the warnings of "higher sanctions" were just empty threats, so Sherlock took the liberty of throwing these letters away as soon as he read them. He had to open the mail, because his mother's hands were too shaky at that point. But one day, he forgot to throw away one of the school letters and his mother had got hold of it while Sherlock was at school.

Later that day, when Sherlock had been relaxing in silence next to his mother on the sofa after he had cooked both of them dinner, he saw the dreaded letter in his mother's lap.

'You're…' his mother struggled to get the words out, '…failing.'

'It doesn't matter,' Sherlock replied.

'It does. I don't want…' she winced at the effort of stringing sentences together, 'you to throw your life away for me.'

'Well I want to, and you want me to be happy, and making sure you're happy makes me happy so…' Sherlock smiled as warmly as he could at his dying mother.

'You're not happy.'

'I am,' he insisted.

'You shouldn't be looking after your sick mother. I should be looking af- af- ter you. You should be out havi- ving fun with your friends – people your age. Y- you're fifteen.' Sherlock's mother smirked when Sherlock scoffed when she talked about his 'friends'.

'When you put it like that, it makes me want to be here looking after you even more,' Sherlock put his hand around his mother's and squeezed it.

'You're too clever, too… kind. I do- don't deserve a son like you,' she feebly squeezed back.

'You're clever too and I'm not kind. You just deserve all that I can give you. You deserve more than me.'

But she just shook her head and left it at that. Talking too much made her exhausted.

Sherlock's mother was diagnosed with MS a few months before his father's crash. The symptoms hadn't been too bad up until then. She just had a bit of trouble running for the bus and got tired easily. She stopped going to work exactly six days before his father's fatal car crash on his way home from an extra shift. It was a side-on collision that killed both drivers. Sherlock's father died instantly, but the other driver died in hospital three days later.

As soon as Sherlock's mother got the call it seemed like the condition had accelerated alarmingly fast. She said nothing, ate nothing, didn't move for days until Sherlock's weeping and begging got her to eat a small portion of food; and after that she could barely walk.

It wasn't just grief - Sherlock's mother told him - she blamed herself for her husband's death. If she hadn't had to resign, he wouldn't have had to do an extra shift and therefore it wouldn't have happened. Sherlock insisted it wasn't her fault at all, she couldn't help her condition. It would've killed his father anyway to see her suffering on at work. She smiled a reply, convincing Sherlock a little that she believed him. However his comforting just made her feel worse in a way. In her prime, the mother of Sherlock Holmes was a clever, powerful woman; and knowing that killing husband was out of her hands yet almost completely down to her was more excruciating than any physical pain she could ever feel.

Sherlock had been sitting there until the bell rang and hundreds of children flooded into the corridor. Most of them just ignored the silently crying figure and loudly chatted and laughed, excited about the end of the day. Some of them glared and sneered at him, kicking him and sniggering as they walked past. Molly walked out and immediately knelt down in front of him, her eyes filled with concern.

'Are you coming Molly?' her boyfriend, Greg, called back at her. She looked at him, and then back at Sherlock. Sherlock looked up enough to scowl at her.

'Go away, Molly. I think Greg wants you.' Molly stood up, shocked at Sherlock's coldness. She didn't know why she was shocked, it was nowhere near the first time Sherlock had been mean to her when she was trying to be friendly. There wasn't any point trying to be nice, she realised.

'I wasn't talking to you anyway,' she marched off and put her arm around Greg, keeping her head high when she just felt like crying.

Ms Robertson put her head around the corner of the door and saw Sherlock still sitting there. She sighed and sat next to him. Sherlock made no complaints when he heard Ms Robertson plonk herself on the floor. He liked her, for a teacher. She understood him a little better than the others and didn't snap as often as the other teachers did. After all, everyone lost it sooner or later if they had Sherlock in their class.

'I'm sorry Sherlock. I didn't mean to make you cry. I was just at my wit's end and I was having a hard day and... Anyway, I'm sure it wasn't me that made you cry. You're too strong to let a teacher get to you. Is everything okay at home?'

'Yes,' said Sherlock immediately. He didn't want to talk about his family life with anyone. He didn't want anyone to know about his mother's condition.

'Okay… is it girl troubles?' Ms Robertson giggled. Sherlock just looked at her.

'No, no, I suppose not… is it boy troubles?'

'What-'said Sherlock, a little stunned.

'No! I mean, do you have any friends? Are the other boys nice to you?'

'I wouldn't care either way.'

'You've got to at least try to get along with them.'

'They hate me, and I hate them, so why should I?' Sherlock asked simply. Ms Robertson sighed again. She seemed to sigh an awful lot whenever she talked to Sherlock.

'I heard there's a new boy coming into your class tomorrow, and he won't immediately hate you, so maybe you should try and make friends with him.' Sherlock said nothing. 'At least think about it?' She patted him on the shoulder and went back inside the classroom to get her things together.

'The new boy will hate me immediately', thought Sherlock,' they all hated me as soon as I opened my mouth so why shouldn't he?' He stood up and walked towards the gate where Mycroft was waiting for him.

'Where have you been, you little idiot?' Mycroft grumbled at Sherlock from under his greasy fringe.

'I was just talking to Ms Robertson.'

'Ooh! There was I thinking you'd never get a girlfriend!' sniggered Mycroft.

'Just shut up, Mycroft .' Sherlock's glare was so terrifying that Mycroft said nothing for the whole journey home.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock leant back in the hard, plastic chair pressing his hands together and placed them on his lips. He raised an eyebrow at the crowd of shouting and laughing teenagers in the middle of the room. Greg put his arm around Molly. She smiled at him, but leaned away from him as he leant in to kiss her. Her eyes met Sherlock's and though he made no move to avert his gaze, she blushed and looked to the floor. His eyes turned to Sally and Anderson – they were fighting as usual. Sally crossed her arms and turned away from him, making his eyes and voice soften. He forgot about what they were arguing about, wrapped his arms around her – grinning - and kissed her on the cheek. Sally rolled her eyes, but she smiled and turned around to kiss him back.

It absolutely bewildered Sherlock, these turns of events that happened almost every day, resulting in the same conclusion. It was all utterly pointless to him. Who would want someone that is with you all the time just for the sake of arguing with (and when they weren't arguing they were talking about trivial, boring things), to be with someone you don't particularly like - from what Sherlock could deduce from Molly's reaction to Greg? Why was everyone so idiotic, yet so utterly confusing?

Sherlock drifted out of the classroom into his head – his mind palace. He walked the corridors, each of them containing hundreds of rooms. He opened a door to study a newspaper article he had once read about the death of a 25 year old man. To most other people this would be boring, but if it was then Sherlock wouldn't have saved it. Death was dull and repetitive, but it was interesting when the death didn't make sense. The police had told the media that it was an accident; basically they had given up on looking for a murderer. But that didn't mean in any way that Sherlock had. He sat there cross legged in the bustling room and tried to make sense of the facts, grabbing and pulling them into order.

A plastic object hit the back of Sherlock's head and clattered to the floor. He felt himself tumbling out of his mind palace and back into his form classroom chair. He turned around to see Anderson sniggering at him from his seat in the row behind Sherlock.

'Psycho,' Anderson mouthed. It turned out what Anderson had thrown at him was a plastic ruler. Sherlock picked it up and threw it down on to Anderson's desk with a crash. Everyone turned round to look at them.

'Sherlock!' Mr Michaels shouted. Sherlock swivelled around to look at the teacher. Apparently, during his trip to his mind palace, the bell had rung and the class had rushed to their seats as their form tutor had come in.

'Tutor…' Sherlock had always thought how ironic that title was for that stupid man.

'Anderson threw the ruler at me,' Sherlock grumbled.

'Oh, well I can't deal with your little feuds today. I don't want to scare the new boy off when he's barely half-way down the corridor, and to be honest, I've just had enough of you in general. So settle down, both of you,' Mr Michaels flapped around, his bright red face making him look like a fat, distressed lobster. The head of year's voice echoed down the corridor and he peered out of the door, proceeding to rush outside to meet her and the boy she was escorting.

Anderson kicked the back of Sherlock's chair hard, forcing his ribs into his desk. He winced, but ignored it. Anderson wasn't worth getting into trouble for. Anderson wasn't worth Sherlock's attention at all. Instead he looked out the window at the disgusting, grey storm outside. He vaguely acknowledged the loud, sluggish footsteps of the teacher as he re-entered the room, and the lighter, more rhythmic footsteps of the boy following him.

'This is John. He's just moved here from a posh boarding school. I'm not sure why you would want to move from there to this dump though! Bit of a mistake if you ask me,' Mr Michaels chuckled nervously.

Sherlock turned his head to take a look at John, seeing if he would be one of the people that either ignored him, or made his time at school as bad as they could. John seemed very neat, pristine almost, compared to the scruffy selection of school children in front of him. His sandy blonde hair was brushed so thoroughly that not a hair was out of place. His skin was totally clear and glowed with cleanliness. His clothes were ironed to within an inch of their life and his black shoes were spotless and heavily polished. So… either an overly caring parent or the boarding school he went to was very strict. A school that has links with the military perhaps? Or maybe it was a school for delinquents? No, Sherlock reasoned that when those sorts of boys return from those sorts of schools, few are actually straightened out to John's extent.

John had good deportment, making the army school theory more likely. His back was straight and he kept his chin up, though Sherlock could see that he was tense. His fingers were nervously drumming against the side of his leg and he bit his lip as he stared at the teenagers in front of him. Sherlock couldn't blame him for being slightly scared of the class. They scared Sherlock too. Not scared of them hurting him (though he had been beaten up, had things thrown at and been thrown against walls multiple times) because he could fight back, and he did. It was more that he was scared that their stupidity might start rubbing off on him.

He looked at John intently. He didn't seem like he was like anyone in this class, or in this year. He was different - like Sherlock.

'Um… the only free seat is next to Sherlock, so get yourself comfortable over there,' Mr Michaels gestured in the direction of the empty chair. John gracefully stepped – almost marched – over to Sherlock. He sat down, took his pencil case and his planner out, and placed them so they were parallel to the edge of the table. Sherlock peered inside the pencil case. Inside it was a pen with a school's coat of arms on it and down the side it read: The Duke of York's Royal Military School. Army school it is then. His eyes glanced over the rest of the contents of the case. The only thing that caught his eye was a fluffy pink pen with the name 'Harriet' down the side. It seemed barely used and it definitely wasn't originally for him, so it was a reject present from someone. The Duke of York's Royal Military School was a boy's school, and he didn't expect John to have any female friends outside school, so this pen used to be his sister's.

'Does your sister go to this school?' Sherlock asked John.

'Wh- What? How did you know I have sister?' A slightly startled John looked at the tall, thin, pale boy with messy dark hair and startling blue eyes sitting next to him.

'The pink pen, in your pencil case,' Sherlock replied simply. 'Did she used to go to a boarding school before you came, or has she always gone to school here?'

'That is… amazing,' John's eyes widened. It looked as if Sherlock had been punched in the face. No one had ever given him an outright compliment before. Well, nobody except his mother, but the compliments were getting less frequent and more challenging for her to give.

'You worked all that out just by looking at me?' John asked, his face full of admiration.

'Any idiot can look. I observe.'

'Then you must be the least idiotic person I've ever met.' Sherlock suppressed an actual smile, but he couldn't help the corners of his mouth turning upwards slightly.

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome. So your name's Sherlock then?'

'Evidently, and your name's John.'

'Evidently,' John smirked.

'So…' Sherlock began, attempting the first actual conversation he'd ever had with someone from his school… with anyone that he wasn't related to, in fact.' 'Why did you leave Duke of York's?'

'Nobody really liked me there, and my parents thought I should mix with some normal people my age.'

'I don't understand how anyone would want to mix with 'normal' people our age if 'normal' is that.' Sherlock nodded in the direction of Anderson.

'Oh… Are the normal people the sort of people I should avoid then?'

'Most definitely.'

'At least I've got you.' Sherlock blushed red for the first time in his life.

'Got me?' Sherlock stuttered.

'Got you to be my friend,' said John, looking a little confused.

'I don't have friends.' Sherlock's face iced over and he dragged his eyes away from John. He tried to make out he was trying to listen to what the teacher was talking about.

'Well that's going to change if I can help it,' John pouted, his eyes trying to find Sherlock's again. Sherlock turned his head to look at this new companion and let the smile he had been holding back wash over his face.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few day s were the happiest Sherlock had experienced since the day he heard his mother's diagnosis. Each day followed a similar pattern. Sherlock and John met on a street that was the same distance away from both of their houses so they could walk to school together (Baker Street – effortlessly worked out by Sherlock). When they arrived at school, they sat in their seats, and Sherlock would talk about his theories about something he called: 'The Science of Deduction.'

At first, John thought 'The Science of Deduction' was total rubbish, how could someone find out so much about a person just by looking at them? So, he just raised an eyebrow, and nodded along whenever Sherlock started talking about it. It didn't matter that John didn't say much. He didn't even think that Sherlock was talking to him, more thinking out loud. But it didn't matter, because the thoughts of Sherlock Holmes were the most astonishing things he'd ever heard.

As time passed, John had come to not only believe just in the Science of Deduction, but believe everything Sherlock said. He had never trusted someone so much, after so little time – even though the rest of the world seemed to think he was untrustworthy. He didn't know the exact point he realised this, but there were moments he thought were the main turning points. One of the first was in a Geography lesson.

Ms Tyler, the Geography teacher was talking to Mr Smith, and while John was writing furiously about sea stacks, Sherlock was staring into space.

'Sherlock!' Ms Tyler shouted at him, 'You haven't written anything in the last half an hour. If you haven't finished by the end of the lesson I want to see you after school.'

'What's the point in learning about sea stacks if I'm just going to delete it? This is one of the most unimportant things I've ever been asked to learn. There will be no point in my life that this information will be useful.'

'You never know, you could be a geologist when you're older,' Ms Tyler tried to reason with an unimpressed Sherlock.

'I do know. I won't be,' Sherlock stared blankly at the teacher.

'You seem a bit too sure about that, seeing as you're 15.'

'Well, I am. I'm as sure about that as I'm sure that Mr Smith had a sleepover with you last night.'

The only sound you could hear was the sound of every person in the room's jaw hitting the floor. The whole classed looked at the teachers to see if the accusation was true.

'I- I- I don't know what you are talking about! How dare you make those sorts of assumptions!' Ms Tyler stuttered and looked at Mr Smith for confirmation.

'It's not an assumption, it's true; and by your reaction you've just proved it to the whole class.' Sherlock gave Ms Tyler a quick, sarcastic smile.

'How, may I ask –'

'Firstly, I'll point out the state of your knees,' Sherlock interrupted, 'secondly, I'll point out that you're wearing exactly the same outfit you were wearing yesterday. Thirdly…' Sherlock stopped. 'I could go on, but this is boring me.'

'OUT! Get out of my classroom!' Ms Tyler exploded, while John just grinned at Sherlock as he swept out of the door.

Every time Sherlock was sent out of class (which was most days) the hatred from everyone else seemed to grow. But John just couldn't help liking him even more, and he thought Sherlock might be starting to like him more too. Whenever John paid Sherlock even a small compliment, his face lit up. He tried to hide it immediately after he realised he was showing signs of emotion, but John always saw it, and it made him happy.

Like Sherlock, John hadn't had much happiness in recent years. His parents had sent him to boarding school, which consisted of being with people he hated every second of the day. Nobody liked him, even the teachers. They bullied him. It may have been a military school, but John knew there was a line, and they'd crossed it. He had always been very neat, and after he left that school he was even neater. It was the little things that did it. Like when he would be slightly out of line, the general would kick him hard to make him get back into position. Or when his school things got in a mess, a supervisor would hit them back into their rightful place – 'accidentally' hitting John in the process - with something long and sharp. It was only a matter of time until John had developed some OCDs.

Sherlock and John had become inseparable. They were now just called 'SherlockandJohn' by their classmates, and naturally there had been some name calling - mainly from Anderson. Even though there were a lot of comments, there were in fact, less than before John had arrived. There was something about them, when they were together, they were almost untouchable. Sherlock could slice you in half with his verbal comebacks, and his physical comebacks were nowhere near shabby (as Anderson had found out many times). Although John was smaller than all of the boys and most of the girls, he had been going to a military school for the past four years and was surprisingly strong and fast.

One day, Sherlock and John had been sitting in their usual spot in the playground and Anderson's gang must've been in a particularly bad mood. Anderson, Greg, Sally, a few other boys and girls marched over to them while they were in deep conversation.

'Hey freak, how're you and your boyfriend?' Sally sneered.

'He's not my boyfriend,' John scowled.

'Yeah he is,' a particularly attractive dark haired girl shouted from the back.

'That's a big mistake trying to make friends with a psychopath,' jeered Anderson. John stood up and glared up at him.

'Don't you dare call him that again,' he whispered.

'I'm a high-functioning sociopath, do your research,' Sherlock rolled his eyes, but looked worriedly at John. He didn't want him to get hurt by an idiot like Anderson, so he stood up next to him.

'You're a gay psychopath. Just like your disabled mum.' Anderson hissed. Sherlock made a move to throw him to the ground, but he didn't need to. John already had him on the floor and was punching the crap out of him. He smiled. He needn't worry about John Watson.

That afternoon Sherlock came home, he felt light. Like a huge weight that had been resting on his shoulders had been shifted – slightly. It was pushed right back on when he saw the state his mother was in. Her limbs lay sprawled over the floor while her chest heaved, pushing out screeching breaths. She shook and her teeth chattered so violently Mycroft and Sherlock were scared she was going to bite her tongue off. They rushed to her side.

'I'll call an ambulance,' Mycroft said, running to the phone to call '999.' Sherlock knelt down next to his mother, wrapped her in his arms and stroked her long, withered hair.

'Mummy, it's going to be okay. Do you hear me? You are the strongest person in the world. You are not going to leave me.'

'Sher- Sherlock,' she whispered. He shushed her.

'Don't talk. You'll just waste your energy.'

'The ambulance is on its way.' Mycroft sat down next to Sherlock and his mother, and held her hand as they waited.

Sherlock sat in the bright, noisy hospital with his head in his hands. The screams of babies and the moans of patients filled the air and, although Sherlock's head would be noisy anyway, he could hear nothing but one thought, over and over again. 'She's going to be okay, she's going to be okay, she's going to be okay.' A tear ran down Sherlock's face, as Mycroft gave up on trying to get information from the doctor. He walked over to Sherlock and sat down next to him.

'Sherlock, you should go home. You've got your bus pass, right?' Mycroft told him sternly.

'I'm not leaving,' Sherlock replied through his fingers.

'You should. You need to. I'll deal with everything because I'm the oldest.'

'You never looked after her! It was me who gave her help whenever she needed it. You did nothing but straighten your hair and die it stupid colours. You don't deserve to be her!' Sherlock screamed at a startled Mycroft.

'Go home, Sherlock.'

'Fine, I don't want to be anywhere near you. I hate you,' Sherlock whispered before storming out of the waiting room into the cold night air. He started to run. He had no idea where he was running to until he was standing outside the door – John's house.

He needed to see him. Only he could make him feel like being alive was still a good idea. But it was late, and he knew that John's parents would never let him in at this hour, so Sherlock climbed swiftly over the fence into the back garden and threw a stone at John's bedroom window.

'John,' he called and threw another pebble. A dishevelled looking boy came up to the window.

'Sherlock? What the hell are you doing here? Do you know what my parent will do to you if they found out you were in my garden?' John stuttered from the window.

'I know, it's just… my mum...' The shock of his mother's breakdown and the fact that he had just run five miles kicked in and Sherlock collapsed on the floor.

'Shit, Sherlock!' John carefully shimmied down the drain pipe attached to the outside of the house and ran over to him. 'What happened?'

'She's really, really ill John, even worse than she usually is. The worst she's ever been,' Sherlock whispered.

'Oh Sherlock,' John sat next to the collapsed boy. He was unsure of what to do, he just wanted to wrap him in his arms and tell him it was all going to be alright. But even though this tall, strong young man had been reduced to a quivering child, he just couldn't bring himself to.

'I'm cold.' Sherlock was still in his school uniform and hadn't had the chance to grab his coat on the way out.

'Oh, um… you can have this,' John took off his dressing gown so he was just in his Doctor Who pyjamas. Sherlock accepted it and wrapped it around him – he couldn't put it on properly because it was a dressing gown made for an eight year old. He straightened up out of his foetal position so he was lying on his back, looking at the stars. It was only a matter of time before John started shivering in his TARDIS blue pyjamas with daleks on them.

'Oh, now you're cold! You have it. It's yours.' Sherlock sat up, unwinding the dressing gown from his body and thrusting it at John.

'N- n- no,' John's teeth chattered, 'then you'll get cold again.' He pushed the small item of clothing back in Sherlock's direction.

'Stop being difficult, take it.' John shook his head. Sherlock sighed and gazed into the distance as he thought of how to solve this problem.

'I suppose there's only one way we can settle this,' Sherlock said finally. He tightly wrapped his arms around John. John froze, but his teeth soon stopped chattering.

'Better?' Sherlock asked. J

'Much,' he was definitely a lot better. It wasn't just the warmth from Sherlock's arms that made him feel so much better; it was the warmth that was beating from his heart through his veins to his entire body, a warmth he had never felt before. He smiled and returned the favour by sliding his hands on to his back, drawing him close.

'Better?' He asked Sherlock.

'Much.'

They sat there for a while, just in each other's arms – being. It was an escape, they knew it but they didn't care. Sherlock lay down, taking John down with him. John smiled at him as his eyes swept across Sherlock's beautiful face. It was astonishing that this boy didn't have an army of girls following him around. Sherlock gazed back into John's warm eyes. Those eyes made everything bad go away. Those eyes made him feel like nothing bad would ever come back. He shuffled his head closer to John's so he could get a better view of them. John removed his hand from Sherlock's back and gently stroked his face.

'It's going to be okay, Sherlock,' John whispered.

'I know,' Sherlock whispered back. He painfully dragged his eyes away from John to stare at the sky. It was a beautifully clear night – a rarity in London.

'Beautiful isn't it,' he said.

'Yes,' John turned his head to look up at the stars, 'I didn't think you'd be interested in that sort of thing.'

'Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it.'

'You're amazing you know,' John looked at Sherlock again.

'What? No I'm not. Brains and cleverness… that's nothing compared to you. Nothing compared to your ability to feel, and to make people feel. I would trade all… some of my intelligence to be able to do that.' That was it. John couldn't stop himself. He kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock pulled away.

'What- What was that?' He asked, bewildered.

'I kissed you,' John looked down forlornly, 'I'm sorry. I thought you felt the same -'

'Stupid,' Sherlock thought as he smiled and looked into his eyes. He lifted his head so he could get closer and interrupted John's stupidity with a kiss. John Watson never did finish that sentence.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke up cold and damp with the burnt orange sun just peeking over the horizon. Grass tickled his face and he frowned and wiped dew off his cheek. He looked down to see a peacefully sleeping John Watson, with his head resting on Sherlock's chest. John was smiling, and his light snores tickled Sherlock's neck. Obviously they had both fallen asleep under the stars. Sherlock closed his eyes and basked in the glow of the rising sun, slowly warming up his freezing face. He placed his icy hands on to John's warm neck and let it thaw them. John woke up at Sherlock's touch.

'Oh, sorry I woke you up. It's just, my hands are freezing,' Sherlock said, taking his hands off John's neck.

'They are,' John smiled, 'and it's okay.' He sat up and held his hands tightly. 'Better?'

'Much,' Sherlock smiled back. 'You can go back to sleep if you want. It was nice. You looked peaceful.' John yawned and let his head drop with a thud onto Sherlock's chest again.

'You are surprisingly comfortable.' John snuggled his head into Sherlock's cheap, white school shirt and fell straight back to sleep again. It looked so easy for him to just fall asleep. God, John could never know how much Sherlock wanted to be him. To be able to do that… just forget everything and switch off.

Tears filled Sherlock's eyes. Why couldn't he just forget about Mother and Father...? No, how could he even think that? He would never forget Father, and Mother was just going to get better. She had to, didn't she?

'Oh Mummy…' Sherlock whispered as he looked up at the orangey splatter of clouds in the sky. He choked out a sob, but quickly recollected himself. He wasn't going to cry. He was Sherlock Holmes, the clever boy who didn't care about anyone. He wished with what was left of his heart that that was still true. Caring was not an advantage in any way. He looked back at John. Maybe it was. It felt nice having John, much nicer than he expected it to be, or maybe that made it even worse. Sherlock just had more to lose.

For the most intelligent person he'd ever met, Sherlock really was stupid. After his father died, he promised himself that he wouldn't care about anyone else, because losing them just made it hurt. Caring was for stupid people, who were too weak to control their own minds, too weak to think before loving or falling in love. Yet here he was - the cleverest fifteen year-old boy in the world doing such a thoughtless thing as falling in love. Sherlock swept a stray blonde curl off of John's forehead and brushed his fingertips across his cheek. What astounded Sherlock even more was that the person he fell in love with wasn't particularly special, or brilliant. Not in the way Sherlock was anyway. He was ordinary. But there was something in his smile, the way it shone like the sun and made the space around him ten times brighter. He could see the best in everybody, yet out of all of the 'nice' people at the school, John chose to hang around with the most flawed. He complimented him constantly, when in Sherlock's opinion, there was no reason to.

Sherlock loved him alright. After a few more hours of dreamless sleep, John woke up.

'Morning,' Sherlock said.

'Adgffewgkjvrskj,' was John's reply as he turned his head around and with a huff threw his arms over Sherlock's body. He snuggled him, but Sherlock had had enough of John using him as a pillow so he picked up John's head and manoeuvred his body out from under it. He then gently laid it down on the grass.

'AAHJDFJSGJSJDKJ,' John grumbled angrily as his heat source moved away from him. He stretched his body out like a cat and then wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. He snuggled his face into his neck. Sherlock rolled his eyes but smiled at the kitten-like boy. He removed John's hands off his neck and sat up.

'Ohhh,' John moaned and covered his eyes with his hand, 'stop being difficult.'

'It's eleven in the morning, John.'

'What?' John shot up, 'Why didn't you wake me up sooner? We'll be late for school-'

'It's a Saturday,' Sherlock interrupted.

'Oh yeah. But still, fuck. My parents must be wondering where I am. You should've woken me up- Hang on, you must have let me sleep on you for hours…'

'Well, yes. I didn't want to wake you.' A straight-faced Sherlock looked away from John.

'That was, really nice. Thank you.' John smiled and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. Sherlock smiled.

John sat crossed-legged in front of Sherlock.

'So, what do you want to do now? I mean, I should get changed first because – you know…' John motioned towards his pyjamas.

'I don't know.'

'We could always just stay here...' John suggested, although he was slightly worried about his parents intruding on him and Sherlock. He hadn't exactly told them he was gay yet, and they weren't exactly the most open to that… sort of thing. Actually, he hadn't realised that he must be gay until that moment.

'I- Yes that would be great, but I should really get home, there might be news about Mother.'

'Oh yeah, how are you holding up?'

'O-Okay,' Sherlock stammered. His eyes dropped to the floor so John couldn't see how weak Sherlock was. But he wasn't fooling anybody. John's lip quivered when he saw Sherlock in this state. He shuffled closer to him and enveloped the beautiful boy in his arms. He caught a tear rolling down Sherlock's cheek with his finger. He leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck, deepening the kiss, clinging on for dear life. John stroked Sherlock's perfectly smooth, young cheek.

'I love you, John.'

'I love you too, Sherlock.' They kissed again, and again.

A short, fat figure came waddling down the garden path, but neither of the couple saw him. It was just Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock. They were caught up in their own little world, with no one else.

'John?' A distant, booming voice rang out.

'John?' An even more distant, feminine voice carried across the garden. These calls got louder and nearer.

'John what-' Footsteps approached the kissing couple. John's father grabbed John by his shoulder and dragged him away from the tall, dark-haired boy and forced him onto his feet. He shook him by the shoulders.

'Where the hell have you been, John? No, that's a stupid question. I know exactly where you've been and what you've been doing.' He was fuming. You could almost see steam coming out of his ears. He looked in disgust at Sherlock.

'What the hell are you doing in my garden? Get out!' John's father let go of John to make his way towards a stunned Sherlock. He scrambled to his feet and ran towards the fence. Getting to it, he swiftly jumped over it.

He ran down the road. John's father was actually terrifying. Oh god, he hoped John was going to be alright, and not be in too much trouble. What was he even thinking, waking him up in the middle of the night and ending up being used as a human pillow? He slowed down a little, when he realised that such a portly man couldn't have jumped over such a high fence. He had been doing an awful lot of running since he met John. He walked all the way home and standing outside his front door, he took a deep breath. This was it. He was just going to see mother laughing at Cabin Pressure on the radio in the front room, or reading the newspaper in the kitchen. He was going to see her, and she was going to fine. He fumbled for his keys in his pockets and opened the door. Someone was definitely home.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen. In the place of where his mother should be was a pale, black-haired man in an expensive-looking suit. Sherlock deduced from his collar and the scuffs on his shoes that he was… from social services.

'No,' Sherlock muttered. Before the care worker opened his mouth Sherlock knew what he was going to say. He stumbled out of the kitchen door and into Mycroft's arms. This was the first and last time they had ever hugged. Mycroft's eyes were raw from crying and hot tears were still streaming down his face.

'I'm so, so sorry, Sherlock. There was nothing the doctors could do,' he whispered.

'There must've been! Anything…' Sherlock screamed into Mycroft's shoulder.

'They did everything they could. She died in her sleep, she didn't feel any pain.'

'How could you possibly know that?'

'You're right, I couldn't. She was suffering, and now she isn't anymore, at least that's something.'

'I don't want her to be dead.'

'Neither do I, Sherlock. Neither do I.' Mycroft rocked Sherlock back and forth as if he was five, not fifteen. Sherlock certainly felt that way, like a child - utterly helpless.

The man came into the hall with a concerned look on his face; at least he tried to make it look concerned. He had been through this too many times not to be just a little tired of it.

'Sherlock, I am Mr Moriarty, but you can call me James. I know you must be feeling terrible right now, but I'm here to say that I'm going to take you away to a lovely new home so we can look after you. Your brother is of age, but we all think it's best if you stay with us so we can help you get through this tough time. It's close to here so you can still go to your old school,' he said in a soft, Irish accent.

'Where is Mycroft going to go?' Sherlock sniffed.

'He has a choice. He can either stay here until we get all the legal work sorted out or he can come and live with you.' Sherlock looked at Mycroft for an answer.

'I'm going to stay here. I need to look after the house.' Sherlock's faced creased over. Even though he hated his brother, he needed someone other than this James Moriarty.

'I'll give you a few minutes to pack some things and to say goodbye to your brother,' the man smiled a fake smile at the two brothers and glided back into the kitchen. They looked at each other.

'Well,' Sherlock choked back a sob, 'I suppose this is goodbye for now.'

'I suppose it is, don't make everyone hate you at the home, Sherlock.'

'I'll try,' Mycroft held out his hand and Sherlock shook it.

He turned away from Mycroft and ran up the stairs, silently saying goodbye to everything in his childhood home.

'Goodbye stairs, goodbye ceiling, goodbye TV, goodbye bookcase…'

He threw some clothes and his toothbrush into a suitcase. It didn't particularly matter, he could always come back for things he needed. He walked as slowly as he could down the stairs and was met at the end by a smiling Moriarty. They walked out of the door together and towards a black car. He turned to look at his home one last time.

'Goodbye Mum,' he whispered through his tears.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock stood outside The Smile Train Foster Home. Although it was far away from smiley, as far as Sherlock was concerned. The faded yellow building loomed over the boy and his care worker, the cracks in its paintwork making it resemble an urban haunted house for nursery children. It sounded like one too. Even standing outside, you could hear the wails and cries of lost children echoing out of grimy windows and unnerving passers-by.

"Well," Moriarty said, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and encouraging him inside, "Go in then." Sherlock took his first steps into his new 'home.' He took a deep breath to stop him from viciously ripping Moriarty's hand off his shoulder, inhaling a lung-full of dust and damp. He coughed violently. The building itself was a simple layout, an administration office and common room on the ground floor. The boys' rooms and three shared bathrooms were on the first floor, and the girls' rooms and bathrooms on the second. The whole house had a certain decaying atmosphere. As if, like the children that lived there, the whole building had been left alone to rot, unwanted and unloved.

Moriarty led him up the creaky wooden stairs. Sherlock felt as if he should've been deducing his surroundings, to help him get to know the way things around there were run. But he couldn't. The gaping hole in his chest distracted his mind, making it almost totally dysfunctional. He stared at the sharply dressed man in front of him, seeing if he could notice anything about him that would be of interest. But no such luck. He had no idea about this man. He was oblivious to every detail of him like every other stupid person in the world, and that almost drove Sherlock to tears. They walked down a corridor and stopped outside room 22.

"This is your room," Moriarty said, standing well away from Sherlock. "If you need anything… tough. I'm not going to help you. Breakfast is at 7am and ends at 7:30am. If you're late for breakfast you don't get breakfast. It's as simple as that." Moriarty sneered slightly at the wild, pale boy, his hair tangled and chaotic and startling eyes darting about. To Jim, he was just another disturbed, unstable child to add to this mad house. "In the meantime, keep yourself entertained and don't come to me if you want to talk about your mummy and daddy, because I really don't care. See you around Holmes, honey!" Moriarty's voice dripped with contempt and false affection as he sauntered off down the corridor, getting his phone out from his pocket to send a text.

Sherlock dragged his suitcase into his room. The room was painted with a childish blue. The paint was peeling and faded, just like every other wall Sherlock had seen in this 'home'. The carpet was a greyish colour, although Sherlock wasn't sure if it had started out that colour. It room had few pieces of furniture: a small bed with a thin duvet and one pillow, a table that had lost half a leg, a chest of drawers and a plastic chair. Sherlock hauled the case on to the rickety chair before collapsing on to the bed. He wrapped the duvet tightly around himself because even though Sherlock still had all his clothes on, it was freezing in his room. He shivered. The central heating, if there was one, was definitely either broken or turned off. He could've asked James to turn it on, but Sherlock had got the message that wouldn't have done anything.

Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat. His limbs sprawled over the bed, the duvet tangled around his body. The dreams he'd had that night… mainly of his mother and his father, a bit of John, a bit of Moriarty, which confused him a little. The same dream, over and over again. His mother was alive, and in perfect health. The wind blew her hair in a wild, animal-like fashion, the dreamy light illuminating it to make it look like it was enchanted gold thread. They were in Sherlock's favourite holiday spot where he and his family had spent weeks of unforgettable weeks when he was younger. His father was there too, sitting crossed-legged at the other side of the cliff they were standing on. Sherlock tried to walk over to him, but he found he couldn't move his legs. So he called him, screamed his name. His father simply smiled.

Sherlock turned to look at his mother, who was gracefully tiptoeing around the edge of the cliff. 'She shouldn't be doing that. She always warned us about going close to the edge,' he thought. She stopped, her whole body seizing up. "Mum!" he screamed, suddenly finding his legs functioning. He ran over to the place where she fell, but it was too late. He looked over the edge; only to see a mass of gold disappear into the stormy, emerald green sea. A hand squeezed his shoulder. He turned around, expecting to see his father comforting him. But it was Moriarty. A horrific smile spread over his face like a forest fire at the height of summer. Sherlock's face rippled with fear and hatred as he tipped, as if in slow motion, over the edge.

He stopped in mid-air, his body swinging and bashing against the jagged cliff edge. His head turned upward. John was tightly grasping his hand. He shouted something, but the wind carried his voice away before it could reach Sherlock. "I can't hear you," Sherlock shouted back. His hand was slipping. "Don't let me go," he yelled desperately, hoping his voice could carry. John's hand gave in. Sherlock fell, the white crashing waves flying towards him at top speed. That's when the dream always ended.

He didn't have a watch or a clock, so he couldn't be sure, but by the amount of light outside, he could make a guess that it was about 6 in the morning. He wriggled uncomfortably in his scratchy school uniform. He'd spent two nights in a row in perhaps been the most uncomfortable material ever also he was beginning to smell a bit weird. "I need a shower," he told himself, his legs getting him out of bed. He searched the room and eventually found a towel at the back of one of the draws. He got a clean outfit and his toothbrush out of his suitcase. Sherlock walked down to the shower.

He stripped and turned the temperature to the hottest setting. The boiling water burned his skin, but didn't make him feel any more alive than he had since he'd first seen Moriarty in his kitchen. He wasn't particularly sure if he wanted to feel more alive, to feel at all. It would only make him remember ever more vividly. He got out of the shower and pulled his clothes on. He gave his teeth a quick brush and went back into his room. It was nearly breakfast but he didn't feel like eating. Sherlock didn't eat much at all usually anyway. His mother nagged him to eat more every day. But she nagged Mycroft about his eating, more often than Sherlock.

'Mycroft, if you keep eating secretly I'm going to have to lock the kitchen. The doctor says it's our fault you over eat. But it's you that has to control yourself," she used to threaten him constantly. Sherlock smiled a little as he walked back into his room, but the feeling of his face contorting triggered a sharp pain in his chest. A smile reminded him of his parents too much, the times when he had been actually happy. Sherlock slumped onto the chair, tears glistening in his eyes again. "No, Sherlock," his voice wavered as he scolded himself. "You can't cry again. You can't show weakness," he sobbed. The tears flooded onto his cheeks. He clutched his chest; the pain in his heart was so excruciating, so unbearable. He cried out.

Sherlock couldn't let this happen again. He couldn't let himself care for anything again because he wasn't willing to feel this pain again.


	6. Chapter 6

John Watson bounced nervously on his heels as he waited for Sherlock to arrive so they could walk to school together. He looked at his watch. He was fifteen minutes late… and he was never late. In fact, Sherlock had always been the first to arrive at their meeting place, waiting patiently and leaning against the wall. His thick hair drooped over his startling eyes as he looked down, deep in thought. He always jumped out of his daydream to look up and greet John with a huge smile, though. John had been looking forward to that smile all day. He'd needed it after the constant, full-blown arguing that had been going on at his house. But when John almost hurried down the street to see it, it wasn't there.

He frowned, his forehead creasing in worry and disappointment. John was going to be late if he didn't leave now, so he set off towards the school, his head hanging low. He looked back in hope that he would see Sherlock running after him, wittering apologies and explanations. The glance was in vain. Sherlock had to be waiting for him at school, he told himself. He had to be sitting in his usual seat, his face filled with regrets and concern. It turned out that Sherlock was sitting in his usual seat when John walked into class. But his face wasn't filled with anything. It was blank, showing nothing. He sat staring straight ahead, not even looking at John as he sat next to him.

"Sherlock?" John said quietly. "Sherlock, why weren't you at our meeting place today?" he asked, his voice quivering slightly as Sherlock totally ignored him and continued to stare straight ahead. "Why aren't you talking to me?" Is it something I did or…" John trailed off. 'Sherlock's having regrets about Friday night isn't he,' John thought to himself. He was regretting holding him in his arms, kissing him, telling him that he loved him. All of those harsh, strained words that John and his parents had been throwing at each other, all of the time it had taken John to convince them not to send him back to Duke of York's would be for nothing if Sherlock didn't love him.

"Sherlock?" John said again, gently touching his arm. Sherlock shrugged it off aggressively and finally turned to look at John. His eyes were red and terrifyingly huge with hurt and pain.

"Don't touch me. Don't talk to me again," he shouted at the stunned John. Everyone in the class turned to look at the pair. They were all pretty shocked. Sherlock and John had been inseparable the moment John had arrived, and had never spoken a word even slightly over their normal speaking voices to each other. Not even Sally and Anderson had shouted at each other the way Sherlock just had to John.

Sherlock's eyes bore into his desk as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Oh god how he hated this. He couldn't get John's face out of his head, contorted with agony and confusion. He'd never seen such a broken expression. He pressed his fingertips against his forehead, trying to push the image out of his head. Sherlock didn't want to do this at all, but he knew he had to shove John away as soon as he decided that he would never care for anyone again. It was going to hurt, but being totally cold with him was the easiest way to forget about John, and John to forget about him. Besides, it would hurt a lot more if he lost John and still loved him than otherwise. This was the right thing to do, wasn't it?

Sherlock stole a glance at John's face. His face was frozen in that expression until after a few minutes when John opened his mouth to say something.

"What did I do? What did I say?" John asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Nothing. I- I just don't want you to talk to me again," he stuttered, trying to keep his voice steely but he couldn't help it cracking slightly.

"I sacrificed… a hell of a lot for you, Sherlock. My parents pretty much hate me now," John continued. Sherlock flinched at his words. "The things you said in my garden…"

"…meant nothing," Sherlock interrupted. "I was delirious with grief and needed a comfort blanket." John almost crippled over, clutching at his chest. He was right. John had over-estimated the amount of goodness in Sherlock, and now it had ruined him.

The bell rang and the students went to sit down, unsure of what to make of the scene they had just witnessed. An awkward silence hung in the air until Mr Michaels hobbled in. He almost fainted at the shock of not having to shush his usually unruly class into silence.

"Oh!" he squeaked in surprise. "Lovely to see you all quiet for once. Well done!" The students gave their friendship groups sheepish glances.

"Better get on with the register then. Anderson?" he opened the register.

"Here!"

Sherlock's outburst had worked perfectly. For the rest of the day, and for the rest of the week, John didn't say a work to him. Actually, he had said few words at all. Only to politely answer a teacher's question. John didn't even look at or go near him. He acted like Sherlock was completely invisible. He had even asked all of his teachers if he could be moved away from Sherlock during lessons (somehow, before Sherlock had shouted at John, they'd been put next to each other for every lesson they had together). Sherlock knew he should've been ecstatic at this outcome, and he almost was. But it was something about the way John eyes brushed straight past him, as if he wasn't even there, that made his heart throb even more.

Every second he saw John staring blankly in Sherlock's vague direction made him want to rush up and fling his arms around him, squeeze him tight and tell him he was never letting go. Every second he had to bite his lip, clench his fists to stop himself from shouting out how much he loved him. It was just a hurdle, Sherlock told himself. A high hurdle, but something he was going to get past to run past the finishing line and win the race of emotional immunity. Then he would be able to focus on his work. Not school work, obviously, that was mind-numbingly boring and pointless, interesting work. He would be able to look into murder cases with not a twitch of sympathy or sentiment and that would help him immensely. That's what kept him going when he was so close to giving up.

Every night, Sherlock cried himself to sleep, or simply cried all night if he couldn't get to sleep. Thoughts of his mother, John and his father buzzed round his head like angry wasps, refusing to let his mind take a rest from the stings of pain. When he had the rare moments where his tears tired him into sleep, he dreamt his strange, recurring dream. But there was a difference, instead of John attempting to save him. He just stood there next to Moriarty, staring vacantly down at Sherlock as he fell to his death. As well as this, in the new version of his dream he didn't wake up as he was falling, the dream continued when Sherlock hit the water. The cold green waves lapped at his throat until they pulled him down under the surface. The ice cold water filled his lungs, but it felt like his chest was burning up. He tried to struggle but his he could feel his life slip away as the water surface became ever more distant.

Of course it worried Sherlock that his separation from John had undeniably made his state of mind worsen. Each day he saw John it felt worse, yet he continued with his mission of striving to become absent of all emotion.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock's fingers danced on his thigh as he stared at the small bag filled with white powder. He picked it up and held it in his hands, the small weight an already larger weight on his conscience. His shaking fingers tugged it open and he coated his fingertip with the substance. He thought back to the conversation he'd had with Moriarty a few hours before.

"Hey, Sherlock," he'd sang, catching Sherlock when he'd been alone in the corridor of the dorms and blocking his path. "I know you've been feeling down lately because of, well, your mum kicking the bucket or whatever. But I feel like it's my duty to perk your spirits up a little, as your councillor. I know we haven't got off to a great start, so, think of it as a… getting-to-know-you present." Jim smirked, his eyes glinting, and reached into the pocket of his suit jacket. He tossed the bag up and down in his hand. "Do you know what this is, Sherlock?" Sherlock replied with a vacant expression, with just a touch of loathing. Jim rolled his eyes.

"It's cocaine. A couple of grams or so would definitely lighten your mood a little, eh?" Sherlock blinked once, his expression unchanging. "Do you know how to use it?" Jim asked patronisingly, although if he was being honest, Sherlock didn't. He'd always believed drugs to be the occupation of the stupid, whose minds have little else to distract them from their mundane, meaningless existence. So he hadn't looked into it. "Put a bit on your finger and snort it, like this," said Jim, demonstrating. "Or if you want a proper hit, pour it into a line and snort it up." He sighed after the lack of response, exasperated. "This is expensive you know. The things I do for my kids…"

Jim leaned towards Sherlock, his face so close to his ear he could feel Moriarty's steady breathing on his skin. Sherlock flinched as he dropped the package into his trouser pocket. "This is a gift. But if you find yourself wanting more, come and see me. I'm sure we can sort out some sort of arrangement," he whispered, "and of course if tell anyone about this generous present we'll have to come to another, less satisfactory one. Well, less satisfactory for you." He brushed past him. "Catch you later, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty called as he turned a corner.

Sherlock had been debating about whether to take advantage of Moriarty's gift for some time. He upheld his view on junkies. They were nothings, looking to perk up their low-level brain activity with chemicals. But, wasn't Sherlock a 'nothing', now everyone he felt… had felt any sort of love towards was either ignoring him or dead? He certainly had nothing, and therefore nothing to lose. There was no one to talk him out of it, no one that could be disappointed in him now. Apart from perhaps Mycroft, but Sherlock didn't expect a visit from his brother anytime soon.

Sherlock had been looking for a distraction, something to numb the cliché throbbing of his heart. To his disgust, Sherlock was a person with a practically perfect set of reasons to take drugs. He couldn't deny the draw towards the danger. He'd never known such a small bag to be so intriguing. It would be like an experiment, he told himself, an experience to widen his knowledge about the drug – their effects and their users. Knowledge was good. Knowledge was something Sherlock took pleasure from, something that was familiar.

Sitting himself on his unstable chair and even more rickety table, he dropped the bag of powder onto the table. He used the hole in it to pour some into a line, what Moriarty had said would be a bigger hit and therefore a more accurate experiment, on the table top. It was covered in graffiti. Mindless stuff mainly, like initials in hearts and meaningless promises of forever; colourful language, and some unwitty insults. Many a disaffected teen had sat at this desk. How many, Sherlock wondered, would've been doing what he was?

He neatened up the messily distributed lines before he lifted a finger and blocked a nostril, leaning over the table top. He inhaled deeply and coughed as the rush of dry powder flew into his windpipe. He blinked furiously as his eyes watered. After a few seconds, he let them flutter closed. He wanted his senses to be as acute as he could make them when the effects kicked in. It wasn't long before Sherlock noticed his quickening heartbeat. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow. A short time span for the cocaine to reach the brain, Sherlock noted, or tried to, anyway. It was hard to concentrate on deducing when he could now hear his heartbeat in his ears.

His eyes snapped open, and his first smile in months played on Sherlock's lips. He felt invincible, on top of the world. Nothing mattered but everything was possible. Anything could happen, and it felt amazing. Sherlock's throbbing heart was now actually pulsating, and all of those nasty, unwanted thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind where they couldn't be heard. He enjoyed this oblivious, happy feeling for a few minutes. But then he could feel himself begin to topple and fall off his cloud.

"No. No. No," Sherlock muttered over and over again as he scrambled for the little bag. Empty. He let out a small yelp as his light, empty mind was swamped with darkness once again. He grabbed the bag and stuffed it in his pocket, running out of his room and downstairs to Jim's office. He banged on the door agitatedly. The pale man in the dark suit opened it with a grin on his lips.

Sherlock took cocaine for barely a week and was hooked, totally ensnared. If he went without a hit for ten minutes he would get irritable and desperate; half an hour he would become aggressive, and would continue to become more so as time went on. He had to be creative with his excuses to get out of class and sneak into the toilets after the first ten times, and he could tell teachers and students alike were getting suspicious. John, to his surprise, was included in the people that gave him whispering glances and sneering scepticism (less of the latter). But Sherlock was in fact too wired to make any further deductions about whether John's looks were out of scorn or concern.

He met with Moriarty daily to get his next fix. The first few had been gifts, but Moriarty had demanded a payment after that. Thankfully Sherlock had packed some emergency money, not thinking he would need to use it. He'd rummaged through his bag, finding the wad of cash in a pair of shoes he never wore. He paid Moriarty and gratefully received a package every day from then on. Sherlock insisted that he wasn't getting friendly with Jim, the only communication was solely for business. Jim had agreed profusely.

"Sherlock…" Moriarty said one evening as Sherlock was getting up to leave. "I have a proposition for you."

"Go on," Sherlock mumbled and sat down again. He was too high to resent any extra conversation like he usually did,

"I'm terribly flattered that you've come so attached to my service and thought you would be a valuable part of it. That would be if you'd consider helping me out of course."

"Why would I help you?" Sherlock sneered. Moriarty glanced at the bag clutched fiercely in Sherlock's fist.

"You wouldn't go without payment," he replied with a smile. "You sell some stuff for me and you'll get a slice of what you get." Sherlock paused for a few moments, shrugged, and then nodded.

"Okay. I can start as soon as you want me to," he said eagerly.

"Good." Moriarty opened a safe filled with illegal goods and handed Sherlock a box from it. "Start off with these." Sherlock picked up the box. "…and of course if you happen to lose or use any of it, I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you," Jim spat.

Sherlock clutched the box and hurried out of Jim's office and into his room. He sighed as he put the box on the bed and dashed over to his favoured spot for taking his fix. He quickly finished off his supply and found himself looking at the box resting on his bed as he came crashing down from another high. Giving into temptation, he walked over and sat on his bed, putting it on his lap. Moriarty couldn't do anything to him, Sherlock assured himself. Firstly, he was his care worker and secondly, he'd never seen the man with any 'people' and Sherlock could easily take the smaller man down if he was by himself. He smirked as he opened the box.


End file.
